The Story Never Told
by Pleading Eyes
Summary: What Gaston Leroux omitted from his novel. In persuit of truth, sometimes one must be less than truthful. The original phan, and the story never told.


**Inspiration: **I read somewhere a while back, that some people felt that Leroux had ommitted certain parts of Erik's story from the novel. The reasons were unknown. Maybe he just didn't know how to wrap up all the loose ends, so Leroux chose just not to include them. So I decided to write something Leroux based for the first time and divulge into this idea. This was the result. **  
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**Disclaimer: **I don't own any of the characters, especially not Gatson Leroux who owns himself and all the characters here. This is a work of fanfiction, and another attempt at serious writing by a comedic author.

**Clarification: **That's right, Leroux based instead of my usual stage/movie based stories. Enjoy.**  
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**The Story Never Told **

The journalist-turned-author sighed to himself. His seat rocked, the cab rolling over the uneven stones without ease. He turned to the window, but his eyes met nothing. The fog had spread over the Parisian streets without warning, blanketing them in a clean, chilling emptiness.

This was not what Gaston Leroux had expected. When he had taken it upon himself to investigate the disaster at the Opera Populair, he had envisioned an opportunity to further his success as a writer of fiction as well as a journalist. He had expected to uncover the truth, expose that which the papers refuse to believe.

But the rumors and the gossip, his years of schooling, years in his particular career, none of it could have prepared him. He sighed again, the pitter-patter of rain drops sprinkling on his window only heightening his gloom. As a journalist he'd never thought, that to do what was right, he'd have to lie…

The rain was picking up now, turning from soft little drops to a roar. Wearily Leroux turned his head, resting his cheek upon a hand, his elbow hooked upon the sill of the window. Beside him rested a small, smooth, mahogany box. The little box glittered in the poor light which glided from the street lamps and refracted through the fog. The pretty little box sat lovely and still, with the exception of the jolt it received from the bumps in the road. It seemed impassively content, no remorse etched into its silky wooden finish.

For this he envied the little box.

Outside the downpour had muddied the streets; grime and filth pooling in the flooding sidewalks. A couple foolishly trudged through the slush and muck, soaked to the bone, shivering in cold and defiance; waging a personal war against the weather as they plodded their way home.

The cab whizzed by, unintentionally splashing oiled water upon the forlorn couple. Inside, Leroux felt no sympathy for the pair. Not because he was a cruel man, but because he had not seen them. The fog impeded his sight, even as it began to clear from the rain.

There was another battle being waged all the while, within the man's own memories. Leroux drew in a deep breath, his lungs burning from the frost in the air; causing a fit of coughing to explode from his chest. He had not seen the pair, but that was just the trouble wasn't it? People did not _see_…

_With excitement he'd found her humble flat, small and worn with age. The meek home of Madame Giry. He was in the early stages of his investigation. He had few sources to go by; namely only a handful of witnesses that knew next to nothing and a book written by Armand Moncharmin titled _Memoirs of a Manager

_ When he had, by sheer chance, located the home of the ghost's box keeper, Leroux had felt himself swell with elation and pride in his own investigative handiwork. _

_ But the joy had not lasted long. He knocked politely, only to have the door answered by another. Her hair ran ink black and untamed down her back and over her face. The woman brushed away the strands in front of her eyes, revealing thin hands with poor skin stretched over poor delicate bones. Yet the girl was far too young to be the Madame which he sought. _

_"I-is this the home of Antoinette Giry?" He asked, slight doubt knawing at his insides. _

_ "It was." The girl replied mournfully but invited him in nonetheless. _

_ The place was dark, small and under furnished. A thin layer of dust covered most everything, not that there was much of anything. Thick, faded curtains covered every window in the house, creating the illusion of twilight. _

_ The girl's voice was flimsy and flat as she told him of her mother's passing, not too long ago. Leroux felt his spirits deflate. His star witness was gone. He had been too late. _

_Still, he at least owed this poor girl an explanation. He explained who he was and his purpose there. At the mention of the opera ghost, the girl's eyes widened, sending a renewed thrill through his system. Perhaps _she_ knew something. _

_Meg offered him a seat, retreating gracefully to prepare some tea. There was an emptiness about her. She moved feather-light, no doubt a product of her years as a dancer, but there was more to it than that. It was not only grace, but a ghost-like deathliness. Like a spirit which refused to or could not pass on; she seemed bound to this world but lacked its vibrance and life. _

_Lost in his musings, he did not notice her return until the sound of clinking china roused him to reality. Meg smiled feebly, taking a seat across from him, the flimsy chairs creaking even under her slight weight. _

_He took a sip of his tea, cheap quality but warm. Setting the cup down, he licked his lips and began to ask her what she knew. _

_Meg did not answer for a while, sipping at the tea daintily, her eyes gazing wistfully into space. Her hands holding the teacup trembled, though she seemed not to notice. The minutes floated by, Leroux's watch ticking away in the silence. Still the girl said nothing, not even focusing her gaze upon her guest. But Leroux was a patient man. He sat, hands folded in his lap, occasionally picking up his cup to take a mouthful of tea or raising a hand to adjust his spectacles. _

_Finally Meg sighed, lowering her cup to the table, though her hands remained cupped around it. "It is a long story, monsieur." She breathed. _

_"I have the time if you do, mademoiselle Giry." He replied politely. _

_Finally Meg looked up at him, meeting his eyes. She blinked in confusion for a moment, as if she had expected him to be someone else, before her eyes cleared. "Well, then. Where does one begin?" _

_"At the beginning, I would think." Leroux answered with a chuckle. Meg did not smile. Leroux cleared his throat awkwardly, stopping to ask if she minded him taking notes. _

_"Not at all, monsieur." Meg said assuredly. "Not in the least." _

Leroux was jerked forward as the cab came to a stop. He set his lips into a line of annoyance, debating whether he should complain to the driver. But Leroux did not feel much like speaking at the moment, and the driver couldn't help the poor weather. So with a shrug and a click of the tongue, Leroux laid himself back against the seat.

Beside him, the little mahogany box continued to gleam.

_The story turned out to be quite a bit longer than Leroux had anticipated. It did not help either that the little Giry had a tendency to lose herself and trail off into silence for long periods of time. Leroux was always tempted to snap his fingers before her eyes to bring her back to her senses. But he pitied the dried-out young woman and thus was never anything less than courteous and patient. _

_The first day she had not said much about the ghost at all. Most of her story had been recollections of how it had been to work in the opera house. She told him of the other dancers and the chorus. She told him of the proper way to lace up a dancer's shoes and how difficult it was to keep one's body in top form. She told him of the new managers and of her mother, the box keeper. _

_She had so much to say about her mother. It was all irrelevant, of course, but he had not the heart to interrupt her. _

_Still, he went home that day with only a few lines of useless information and many boredom-induced doodles in his notes. He removed his spectacles with a sigh, placing them on his desk, and rubbing his eyes with one hand tiredly. _

_He pondered the oddity of it all as he lay in bed that night, trying to find sleep. Perhaps little Meg knew nothing of the ghost after all. Perhaps she was just another witness who knew only that there was a ghost and that he had caused much trouble for the Opera Populair. She may not even know that the ghost had really been a man! _

_Yet something didn't fit. The faraway look in her eyes, her welcoming yet distant demeanor. There was something _more_ to Meg Giry. She had to know more than she was letting on. But then, why did she give the appearance of compliance and then refuse to cooperate? _

_Maybe she was afraid. The girl's mother had passed recently and she was alone in the world. Perhaps all he had to do was be kind. He had to remain patient, while still being persistent. Perhaps if he listened to her prattle on about a dancer's sore muscles and the late Madame's favorite chocolates, she'd come to trust him. She may come to realize that his intentions were good ones; that his interest was only in truth. And maybe, just maybe, she'd appreciate the company too. _

A sudden crash against the window caused Leroux to bolt in his seat. He stared at the glass in confusion. All was silent for a moment, until another loud collision was to be heard. Leroux jumped again in surprise, but then calmed. The crashes began coming in groups, growing in amount and lessening in intervals, until the collisions were as constant as the rain. It had begun to hail.

They bounced like marbles against the glass, coming just centimeters from his face before ricocheting towards the streets. Leroux frowned. The day just insisted on worsening his mood. Even the inside of the cab had dropped in temperature significantly. Leroux wrapped his arms around himself, rubbing his own arms for warmth. He was relieved, at least, that he had decided to wear a thick coat this time.

He glanced over at the little mahogany box, almost mockingly. But the little box continued to shine in the meager light, comfortable and unaffected.

_He had gone out that day with his goal firm in his mind. The sky was clear that day too, the sun warm and spirit-lifting. Leroux smiled to himself as he walked cheerily to a small shop on his street. It was a quaint little shop, bells tinkling above him as he came through the door. The colors were bright that day, and the light pouring in through the windows illuminated the charming little shop in a merry way. A slightly pudgy old man, face wrinkled in lines of laughter, waited behind the counter, greeting Leroux as he approached. _

_Leroux did not stay long, but chatted briefly with the old man as he chose out a tin of fine tea. It would be a gift to little Meg, a sign of his chaste intent. _

_Whistling to himself, Leroux made his way back to the meek flat. He knocked one, two, three times. The door creaked open, darkness seeming to spill out from the room, contrasting sharply with the brightness of the day. _

_"Mademoiselle Giry?" Leroux said, still in good spirits though slightly concerned. _

_"Yes, monsieur Leroux." Said a mousy but even voice as Meg poked her little head out of the building. "Come inside, make yourself comfortable." _

_He followed her in and offered her the tin of tea. Meg thanked him politely but did not even attempt a smile. Leroux regarded her curiously, sitting on his chair from yesterday, as she retreated into the kitchen to prepare the tea. _

_When she returned, tea in hand, Leroux noticed that she had taken the time to brush her hair back. Her face was uncovered now, though this did nothing to relieve her withered appearance. _

_She sat across from him, as she had the day before, setting his tea on the small coffee table. "I'm sorry my tea did not please." She said plainly. _

_Leroux's breath caught, realizing he had inadvertently insulted her. "Oh, no! It isn't that at all, mademoiselle!" He insisted. "I only meant to present a gift of thanks for your willingness to help! I did not mean to insult…" _

_Meg gestured dismissively. "It is quite alright, monsieur Leroux. You must forgive me; I am unused to entertaining guests." _

_"Not at all!" He lied, trying too hard to seem affable. "Your home is quite… charming. Elegance in simplicity, after all." _

_Meg said nothing but took a sip of the tea. She was quiet for a few moments, and for a second Leroux feared he would have to endure a long silence again, but then she spoke. Without any introduction or warning, she delved straight into her story. _

_This time she had a much more interesting tale to relate. She told of her mother's almost-relationship with the Opera Ghost. She smiled longingly as she mentioned how he'd leave her mother fine chocolates and other such gifts in exchange for keeping his box open. Through it all her voice kept its low, frail, almost whispered quality. _

_Then suddenly the girl stopped, straightening in her seat, a spark igniting in her eyes that—up until then—Leroux had not thought little Giry capable of. Her voice became fuller, sweeter, almost melodic as she told of a letter the ghost had left for her mother in his box; scrawled in red ink. She recited the letter in its entirety from memory as Leroux furiously scribbled in his notes, trying to keep up, pausing only to quickly push up his spectacles when they threatened to slide off his nose. _

_"MADAM: _

_1825. Mlle. Menetrier, leader of the ballet, became Marquise de Cussy. _

_1832. Mlle. Marie Taglioni, a dancer, became Comtesse Gilbert des Voisins. _

_1846. La Sota, a dancer, married a brother of the King of Spain. _

_1847. Lola Montes, a dancer, became the morganatic wife of King Louis of Bavaria and was created Countess of Landsfeld. _

_1848. Mlle. Maria, a dancer, became Baronne d'Herneville. _

_1870. Theresa Hessier, a dancer, marries Dom Fernando, brother to the King of Portugal."_

_He listened, enraptured, to the young woman, who, as she proceeded with the enumeration of these glorious nuptials, swelled out, took courage and, at last, in a voice bursting with pride, flung out the last sentence of the prophetic letter: _

_"1885. Meg Giry, Empress!" _

_Leroux's hand stilled, shocked by the sudden revelation. The opera ghost meant more to this pitiable girl than a mere phantom! The ghost represented, for her, hope, a future, a glamorous rescue from the harsh paucity of her reality. _

_Leroux looked up from his notes, only to be shocked at the sight before him. The previously near-stoic Meg Giry was smiling, widely smiling, her eyes glistening with tears. _

_"I'm sorry." He sputtered. It had not been his intention to make her cry. _

_But little Meg shook her head, bringing up a thin hand to wipe away her tears. "There is no reason to be sorry." She closed her eyes, willing away her tears, taking a deep breath before she continued. "He promised me the world, monsieur Leroux." Her eyes slid open slowly, still glistening, and she slowly raised her head to meet his eyes. "And for a brief while, he gave it to me." _

_He opened his mouth to ask what she meant, but Meg shook her head again, still smiling poignantly as she asked if they could continue this tomorrow. _

_Leroux agreed, shocked numb by her sudden uncharacteristic display of emotion. _

_Meg retreated to her bedroom without another word, leaving Leroux to let himself out. He made his way to the door, reaching for the doorknob, before a weak hand clutched his arm. _

_He turned to see little Meg, sad smile still stuck to her face, holding out a scrap of paper to him. Leroux tucked the letter into his notes, nodding his thanks, and continued out the door. _

_It was only later, when he arrived home and began to review his notes, that he opened the letter to find red scrawl. The journalist gasped, dropping his notes which scattered and spilled all over the floor,__ as he read the final line: _

_"1885. Meg Giry, Empress!" _

The hail was letting up. Leroux's eyes drifted towards the widow thankfully. At least now he wouldn't be pelted and bruised when he reached his destination. Still, the iciness of his hands and face was irritating. He muttered a curse, hoping against hope that he wouldn't catch the flu from all this.

Bringing his hands up and cupping his face, Leroux breathed out. His own breath warmed him, but he soon ran out of air, leaving him cold again. He took another breath, repeating the process. The warm was a welcome relief, but he could not make it last long enough.

He should have worn gloves. No, he shouldn't have gone out today at all. He should have stayed home, should have forgotten the ordeal. He had done all he had set out to do. Why did he insist on troubling himself?

He glared at the little mahogany box with accusation, but he could not maintain it. He sighed guiltily, moving a hand away from the warmth to pat the little box apologetically. It deserved this much, at least.

_In the weeks that passed, Leroux visited Meg Giry often. He even made a habit of bringing her small gifts of tea or cookies or cakes to serve when they spoke. The little Giry was slowly warming up to journalist; smiling when he arrived, laughing when he joked. _

_Leroux, too, found himself growing more comfortable around the girl, though part of it may have been due to the change in her appearance. Since he had begun to frequent her home, Meg had taken to tying her hair back neatly and wearing brighter colored frocks. She had opened the curtains in her home now, letting the sunlight bring warmth and cheer into the meek little flat. _

_They were almost friends, really, and sometimes chatted about trivial things before he interviewed her. _

_On occasion he shared with Meg what he had found in his investigation. He'd relate to her the clues and the dead ends. She teased him sometimes, telling him how obvious some of his discoveries were. _

_Leroux was most thrilled, however, by his find of a particular witness. The Persian, he called him. That's how everyone who knew him, knew him. The Persian had apparently been trying to tell the papers his story for years, but when they had all refused to believe him, he had given up. _

_Meg sobered immediately, puzzling Leroux. "Did you know him?" he asked. _

_"No." Meg said softly, playing with her fingers. "Though I would have liked to." _

_Her reaction perplexed Leroux. He offered to introduce them, if she wanted to meet him. But Meg shook her head, offering a curiously patronizing smile. _

_And just when he thought they had made some serious progress. He would never understand that girl. _

Thunder in the distance. Another storm was approaching. _Wonderful_…

The air was so frigid, it was almost unbreathable. Leroux shivered at the sight of his breath, coming in briefly heated tiny wisps of clouds. Why was it taking so long to get there? He must have made this very trip countless times before. He never remembered it taking so long.

The cold may have been a part of it, he reasoned. Time always went by slower when one was uncomfortable. That and the fact that he could not see where he was through the rolling fog outside. It felt almost as if he was riding through oblivion, existing nowhere. How far did one have to stray from the path to find oneself in such a place?

This was _it_, he promised himself. He would go through with this final act of compassion and then he'd be done with it! Hell, how long had he spent on the life of a man who had died long before he ever even learned his name?

Too long.

He didn't regret it. No, given the chance he would do it all over again. But that still didn't make what he had requisitioned himself to do now any more pleasant.

Outside, lightning struck; casting all kinds of bizarre and exotic shadows inside the struggling cab. The shadows dancing across the smooth wooden sheen of the little mahogany box gave Leroux the impression of a ballerina.

_The Persian's tale, the skeleton found in the bowels of the opera house and the ring it wore; all of it was coming together! Leroux practically flew though the streets of Paris, dashing to the very limit of his ability, a hand to his face to hold his spectacles in place, rushing to tell Meg everything. _

_She would not be expecting him. He had been so caught up with all the new information flooding to him, that it had been days since he had seen her last. _

_Still, box of biscotti in hand, he hurried down the block to her flat. He knocked, bouncing on his toes impatiently, wondering as to how she would react. Perhaps she would even have more to add, insight to provide. He could hardly contain himself! What was taking her so long? _

_The door creaked open, painfully slow, a little head emerging shyly. _

_"Meg!" Leroux greeted her eagerly, only to realize he was not looking at her. A young boy stood there instead, staring at him in rapt interest. "Erm… is Mademoiselle Giry home?" Leroux inquired hesitantly, falling back into the formalities the two of them had dropped. _

_The boy nodded, expression blank, still gaping at him wordlessly. _

_Leroux was about to ask if he could come in, when an angered female voice rang from inside the house. _

_"Come away from there!" Meg shrieked, seeming nothing like herself. She ran over to the door, pulling the boy away. "I told you, you are not to speak with monsieur Leroux!" _

_"But I didn't say anything, Maman!" the boy protested. _

_"Just… go!" Meg cried in frustration. The boy obeyed, disappearing into another room. Meg turned to Leroux, looking quite flustered, and invited him inside. _

_"You have a son?" Leroux asked, remembering how the boy had addressed her. Meg did not reply. "Why didn't you ever mention him?" _

_Meg snatched the box of biscotti from him, turning away without so much as a glance in his direction. "I'll go serve the tea." _

_She returned soon after with two cups of tea and a plate of biscotti. She had calmed, seeming much more like the young woman Leroux had come to know. _

_"Are you alright?" he asked, genuinely concerned. _

_"Fine, Gaston. Forgive my conduct earlier." She answered brightly. "It's been a while. I did not think I would hear from you again." _

_Leroux explained to her that he had been kept busy. So much of the case had been uncovered all of a sudden, when before he could not even find anyone who knew what they were talking about! _

_Meg tittered, taking a bite into a piece of biscotti and thanking him for it. _

_Leroux fidgeted, still distressed by her sudden change of manner. "So…" he began uncertainly, "you have a son?" _

_"Indeed." She replied dismissively. She began to spout a nonstop stream of drivel, all of it irrelevant, as if trying too hard to skip around a subject. _

_"Meg." Leroux interjected, raising a hand to cut her off. "Why didn't you tell me about him? In fact, why does it upset you so that he'd want to speak with me?" _

_She tried to laugh, to dismiss the situation and steer the conversation elsewhere. Leroux realized this and stood in aggravation. _

_"Do you take me for a fool, mademoiselle?" He did not raise his voice by much, but it was enough to shock the little Giry silent and cause her eyes to widen. "In all the time I've known you, it's as if you've been hoarding away some dark secret! I did not pry, thinking it too personal or too painful. But now I see that such isn't the case at all! You _want_ to tell me! That's why you you've pulled yourself together and allowed me to trust you! Yet in spite of all of this, you _still_ refuse to say anything!" _

_"N-now monsieur!" Meg tried to retort, but Leroux gave her no opportunity. _

_"Yes! You've told me so much about the opera! You've told me your mother's life story! But this isn't about the opera! And this isn't about your mother! It's about _you_! It's about Mademoiselle Daae and the Viscount de Chagny, both of whom have conveniently disappeared! It's about Erik, Meg! His name was _Erik_! This feared and abhorred opera ghost was a _man_, and his name was Erik!" _

_He stood before her, breathing heavily from his rant. Meg had averted her gaze, staring down at her poor bony hands in her poor little lap. _

_Silence penetrated the room like a needle, injecting tension into the very air around them. _

_Still no sound but Leroux's breathing, Meg was still as a porcelain doll. It was becoming too much to bear! _

_Finally she looked up, staring at Leroux but not meeting his gaze. Actually, it seemed more like she was looking through him, to whatever lay beyond. _

_Opening her parched little lips, Meg said in a soft and tremulous voice, "I know his name, monsieur." _

The cab jerked to a stop. They had arrived. Rubbing his hands together and blowing into them in preparation, Leroux smiled in spite of himself. He turned to the little mahogany box, slipping deft hands around it its smooth surface, and tucked it protectively under his arm.

With his free arm he opened the door and hopped out of the cab, into the road.

It was still raining, though not as heavily as before.

Leroux turned to the driver, reaching into his pocket to pull out a few bills, and paid him. The driver handed back the change due and asked if he would be in need of a ride back.

Leroux declined the offer, thanking the driver anyway. He stepped up into the sidewalk, watching the cab ride away into the fog until he could no longer make it out. He would undoubtedly need a ride back, especially if it was still raining when he got out. But he would burn that bridge when he came to it.

He spun around to face the building, relieved to see it was still open in such ungodly conditions, and made his way inside the Opera House.

_"You… you what?" Leroux couldn't stop himself from shaking. She had known all along. She had known the ghost was a man, she had even known his name! Yet she had never even allowed him to suspect it. "Why didn't you tell me?" He spat furiously. _

_"Because I didn't know how!" She screamed back, leaning forward in her seat and locking her eyes with his. Leroux drew back, surprised by her outburst, and settled himself. _

_"What do you mean? You could have just said so. I wouldn't have thought any differently of you." Meg shook her head in response, laughing mirthlessly, rivers of tears running down her gaunt cheeks. _

_"No, no, no. That isn't it at all." She cried, more to herself than to the baffled journalist. "I didn't know how to tell you, how to explain it. God!" Her hands clutched the bottom of her chair, the wood screeching in protest. "How can I make you understand when I don't even understand it myself?" _

Inside it was warm, well-lit, and clear. Leroux shivered, casting away the traces of the horrible cold outside, his body tingling at the welcome change in temperature.

They were not surprised to see him. In fact, throughout the course of his investigation, he had become so common in the opera house that he had almost become one of its attractions. People stopped to gawk at the man who insisted that there had been a brilliant mind with the voice of an angel living in the catacombs beneath the opera house.

Sometimes the owners even greeted him.

But today he ignored the commotion and pleasantries he generated. It meant nothing to him now. He had a mission to complete, a promise to fulfill.

He tightened his grip on the little mahogany box tenderly. With this final action, their adventures together would finally come to a close.

_She had been amazed. The scandal had come and gone within days. Not even a half a week and the people of Paris had already begun to lose interest in _the disaster

_The rumors, however, lingered. Christine Daae had disappeared, as had the Viscount de Chagny. His elder brother, the Count de Chagny, had been found dead in the cellars. Many of the dancers speculated that the Viscount himself had murdered his brother, so that he could be free to elope with Christine Daae. Others claimed that the opera ghost had claimed the Count's life, and imprisoned both his younger brother and the young ingénue. _

_There were countless variations to the stories. The most popular, however, involved the ghost murdering the Count while the Viscount eloped with Christine Daae. _

_Meg had not cared. _

_She might have, had the circumstances been different. Normally she might have even been one of the most prominent story tellers. But she wasn't. _

_Madame Giry had fallen ill. The old woman had been confined to her bed and many feared she would stay that way for the rest of her days. Not that anyone believed that'd be for much longer anyway. _

_Meg believed. She had to. Her mother was all she had ever had in this world. Without her, Meg was just an unimpressive, unpretty, dull little girl. The truth was, there was nothing special about little Meg Giry. Nothing at all. It was almost extraordinary how ordinary she was. _

_But Madame Giry maintained otherwise. Her daughter would be an Empress, of that she held no doubt. The ghost had predicted it, promised it even! And Madame Giry most certainly did not doubt the opera ghost, even as she grew weaker. _

_It eventually became too much for little Giry to live with. Her mother was dying, and she was hardly a person on her own. Still she danced and she worked the life out of herself, only for nothing to improve. It was hopeless, and Meg was helpless. Finally, little Meg Giry snapped. _

_One day, after enduring another morning of her mother's frail insistence that she would be an Empress, Meg Giry's stretched little mind concocted a most foolish plan. _

_She skipped rehearsal, sneaking away to venture into the bowels of the Opera House. The ghost had sworn, after all. He said he'd make her an Empress, and now she'd demand he kept his word! Her mother hadn't been loyal to him all those years for nothing! Both their lives would not have been in vain! _

_Meg hadn't been thinking straight, of course. It was all a frenzied madness stemming from her desperation. She had to do _something_, but there had been nothing logical that she could do. So she had turned to the illogical, to the insane. _

_Stumbling through the dark and dank catacombs for hours on end, way passed the time the others dancers must have gone home, Meg continued her descent. She had become terribly disheartened since she begun her journey, but she lacked the strength to turn around. She couldn't go home, not to a dying mother than believed so fervently that her ugly and untalented little daughter would become an Empress. _

_By pure chance, and characteristic misfortune, she fell into what seemed to be a metallic jungle. It was a mirrored room, so there were probably much fewer trees than she saw. Still, the illusion was mystifying. _

_She explored the room numbly, more out of lack of alternatives than otherwise, until she eventually came upon the center of the room. There, a metallic tree stood majestically and mournfully. It was the only tree, she realized with a sudden clarity. The rest were all reflections. _

_With this discovery also came the realization that there was no way out. She wasn't even certain how she had fallen into her current situation in the first place. She was trapped. _

_Tears pricked her eyes and Meg found herself throwing her arms around the hard, cold tree. She wept against it, her shoulders heaving and shuddering in time with her loud wails echoing in the obscurity. Her knees gave way and she crumpled to the floor, still holding the tree for dear life, her surroundings dead quiet but for the sound of her own cries. Her cries echoed back faithfully though belatedly, until she began to wonder if perhaps another small girl was crying too. _

_She held back nothing, crying with enough force to be heard up in the heavens, making no effort to wipe away her own tears. Then, a sliver of light skid across the floor, crawling towards her, up into her lap, growing until it engulfed her. _

_A door had been opened, and there stood the silhouette of a man. _

_Meg's cries slowed, dissolving almost immediately into sniffles and silent tears. _

Leroux smiled ironically. Here he was, walking down those very catacombs. But he, at least, had enough foresight to bring a lamp. Then again, he could probably make the journey without one. So familiar had he become with this isolated underground world.

He wondered, briefly, if the little mahogany box would resent him for bringing it here.

_Leroux stood, anxiously waiting for her to continue her story. He was tremendously irked that she had stopped in the first place. _

_Meg sobbed, only once, before regaining her composure. But the sound was enough to bring Leroux back to his senses. "Forgive me…" he said softly, moving to kneel before Meg and taking her thin, withered hands between his. _

_"No, it's alright." Meg said bravely. "We must all exorcise our demons at some point." _

_She skipped ahead in her story, explaining that she'd rather not recall the details of their initial meeting. She only said that he had been both furious and miserable, that he had begun to choke the life out of her with skeletal hands before she miraculously managed to speak. _

_"I came… for… your… promise…" She grimaced pathetically. He released her immediately, demanding that she elaborate. _

_When she had finished coughing and nursing her compressed throat; she reminded him that by 1885 she, Meg Giry, was to be an Empress. _

_It had been his turn to cave into sobs. He cried, apologetic yet enraged nonetheless. Said he, "I cannot make you an Empress! I can't even make myself into a man!" _

_Meg had stormed over to him, frantic, refusing to believe that he would not or could not help her. He was her only hope, her only chance! If he didn't make her an Empress, then she was as good as dead anyway. _

_"You are already a man!" She screamed between her own tears. "A man who promised I'd become an Empress!" _

_And it had gone to hell from there. _

_ He was a wreck. He could not decide between pleading for her forgiveness or raging at her for daring to demand anything from the opera ghost. _

_She had nothing to lose. She cried and she wailed and she screamed and she demanded and she beat his chest whenever he refused her. _

_After an indeterminate amount of time, her strength was spent. She fell against the very chest she had been striking, lacking even the energy to continue crying. _

_"My mother's dying." She whispered, her voice hoarse and tear-clogged. _

_"I'm sorry…" was all he could say, his throat raw from shouting. _

_Weakly they sank to the floor, still entwined in an embrace of death. _

_For a long time the two of them just sat there. He held her to him and she did not pull away. After a while his scent, the ghastly scent of death, became familiar to her. She clung to him, feeling inexplicably safer than she had in a long time. _

_He kept her close, for the first time in his life learning the feeling of another's body willingly pressed against his. _

_Meg didn't know exactly when she fell asleep, only that she woke the next morning in an empty dressing room. She was covered in a beautiful embroidered blanket that could only be from the Middle East. _

_Beside her waited a gift; a small, smooth, pretty little mahogany box. Atop it was left a note, written in disjointed red scribble, reading: _For my Empress.

Leroux adjusted his spectacles, only to find they were too dirty to see through anyway. He sighed, using his free hand to remove and clean then. His wiped the lenses with his shirt, moving the cloth in circles. When he was satisfied, he replaced them on the bridge of his nose and carried on. He was almost there.

His other hand, occupied with carrying the little mahogany box, ran its fingers over the fine, polished wood comfortingly.

_Meg had been so happy and she didn't even know why. The little box, while beautiful and finely crafted, did not an Empress make. Nonetheless, she was filled with such a powerful feeling of accomplishment. _

_She hurried home to show her mother, who gasped and laughed in joy. For the ever-weakening Madame it had been more than enough proof. The ghost had not forgotten her daughter. _

_Meg took the little box with her to practice that day. She simply could not seem to put it down. She had not even dared to open it in a childish belief that the magic would escape. She knew it was childish, too. But it was better to be safe than sorry. _

_She stored the box with her other things, making sure it was safe from the grabbing hands of others, and skipped off to dance practice. _

_The rehearsal took entirely too long. Meg couldn't wait for it to be over so she could go back to her little box and hold it close again. A few hours later practice did end, as all things eventually do. Meg rushed away, a wide grin plastered on her wilted little face, not caring that she had been scolded for her absence the day before. _

_The little mahogany box was right where she had left it, as pretty and delightful as she remembered. She held it up, inspecting it every which way. She shivered in enchantment. _

_Then a thought occurred to her. She had been so focused on the little box that she had forgotten the blanket! The gorgeous, exotic, embroidered blanket that she could have given to her mother! He hadn't specified that it was a gift, but he _had_ left it with her. _

_Without thinking she sprinted off towards that particular dressing room. It was not used much anymore, had not been for quite some time, so she did not worry about running into anyone and having to explain how she had procured such an expensive work of foreign art. _

_When she arrived the blanket was gone, but he was waiting for her. _

_Without a thought, she went to him, smiling. He had never beheld such a sight. She was approaching _him_ and she was _smiling_. He offered his hand. She took it without question. _

_They descended into the darkness, she held tight to him and the little mahogany box. _

_When they arrived she asked his name. "Erik." He replied simply. "Only Erik." _

_"Thank you." Meg said, holding up the little box. "It's beautiful." She brought it back to her chest, stroking the shining wood affectionately. _

_Erik looked at her quizzically, or so she guessed. She could not see his expression under the black cloth mask. _

_"Haven't you opened it yet?" he asked. Meg shook her head in inquiry. _

_"Was I supposed to?" _

_Then, he laughed. Erik actually laughed. It was brief and awkward, yet incredibly beautiful. Anything involving his voice always was, it seemed to Meg. _

_"Such is the purpose of a music box." _

_Meg's eyes widened, sparkling at his response. It played music too? She stared down at the box in her hands in awe, why did something so simple seem so magical? _

_Erik came to her, long skeletal fingers wrapping around the little box's lid, pulling it open gently. The little box began to grind out a lovely, though unfamiliar tune. _

_"It's called _Procession of The Empress._" Erik answered her unvoiced question. _

_Meg placed the box on his desk, backing away to get a full view. The regal, bitter-sweet melody floated and fluttered through the air. Meg's chest swelled with emotion and unspoken desires to be more than she was. _

_She whirled to face Erik, brimming with so much emotion that she felt herself about to burst, and threw her arms around him, pressing her lips to the mask over his cheek. _

_Erik went rigid, completely and totally ignorant as to how he was supposed to react. But then Meg pulled away, smiling up at him with love filled eyes. Erik had never known such eyes. _

_He barely dared to ask, but he had to. He had to know, and he knew he couldn't live if she said no. He couldn't take anymore rejection. He had been rejected all his life and he was an old man now. Because of this, Erik knew it was safer not to say anything, not to risk what he had. But he had to know. "Come back… tomorrow?" It had started as a command, but insecurity had twisted it into a plea. _

_Meg gasped and for a terrifying moment Erik thought she was going to scream. But the scream never came. Instead her eyes lit up like stars and her dry little face beamed at him. "Yes!" She paused, then added more softly, "If you will have me." _

_"Yes." Erik echoed her, speechless. For once he had been granted a small happiness, and he couldn't believe it. _

The ground had softened beneath Leroux, signifying the end of the stone floors. He had arrived.

He placed the little mahogany box down on the floor with care. Before him lay the patch of dirt where Erik's presumed body had been found. Leroux knelt, feeling his knees sink into the soft soil, and his slacks absorb the cold water in the dirt.

He patted the ground up and down, trying to find the place that felt right.

Behind him, the humid air condensed on the little box. A small, sparkling drop fell from the box's edge giving the impression that it was weeping.

_Neither of them knew what they were doing. Meg only knew that he gave her someone to cling to, made her different and special, granted her a purpose. Erik only knew that she chased away his loneliness and soothed the sting of his cursed existence. _

_And so, every morning Meg stayed with her mother as long as her schedule allowed. Then she would off to dance practice for most of the day. Finally, as evening approached, she'd go to Erik. _

_He came to trust her rather quickly, though perhaps it was due to the feeling that his life was ending. Meg didn't understand why he insisted his death was near, he seemed in good health. _

_Meg had screamed when she had come upon his coffin; horrified that Erik had died after all. But Erik had embraced her, held her close, and eased her. His reassurance had been enough for Meg, who, with him beside her, grew brave enough to even lie in the coffin herself. _

_Meg wasn't sure how it had started, her lying in his eccentric bed with him. But they both needed the warmth of another during such dark times. So they lay together, she in his arms as she cradled his head to her breast. "We're both much too thin." She teased. He said nothing, but tightened his grip on her possessively. _

_For a few nights they had gone on this way, until one night Meg didn't know what possessed her. Held in his arms, stroking the thin cloth mask that separated him from her, she kissed him. Granted it was through the cloth, but then her lips traveled down to his throat. Erik woke immediately with a start. He thought she had gone mad, that he had driven her to abandon her sanity. But Meg only laughed affectionately and kissed him again, pressing herself to him, feeling his corpse-cold hands warm to her, for her. _

_It took Erik almost the entire night to accustom himself to her touches, until finally his control broke, and he let his hands roam her body freely. Meg reacted in melodious moans, her back arching into his caress. In that moment she had seemed so beautiful to Erik, and the knowledge that she _wanted_ to be here, with him, stirred him to tears. _

_They made love, then. _

_Erik had been slow and uncertain, but Meg had wanted him so urgently that he could not contain himself. She had been ready and willing, patiently encouraging him until he was prepared. _

_When the pain had come, Meg closed her eyes and hid her face in his chest. He wouldn't understand, Meg knew. He'd think he'd hurt her, and he already thought himself a monster, he must never know. So she endured the ache and let him have his pleasure. For Meg it was enough to bear his weight, to envelop him with her love and with her body. _

_The next night had been better, though. There had been no pain and Erik had been more sure of himself. She enjoyed the act physically, as well as spiritually. _

_They never spoke of it. There was no need to. Words would only confuse them, or guilt them, or convince them it was a sin. Meg only told Erik that she loved him, and Erik returned the gesture with his music and magic tricks. _

_He never removed his mask, not even when he lay with her. Meg never questioned it. It was better this way. He was too afraid to show her, afraid that she'd see his face and be disgusted by how he had touched her. He dreaded the sight of her adoring visage contorting into revulsion, of all his just recently acquired contentment being ripped away. _

_Meg saw no need to look beyond the mask. The way she figured it, she loved Erik for Erik. His face meant nothing to her, and thus she felt no need to see it. Granted she was extremely curious, but she believed her disinterest in his face to be the highest form of acceptance. _

_She cooked for him sometimes, though he didn't eat much, and he never ate in front of her at all. Eating required removing the mask, which he adamantly refused to do in her presence. Still he thanked her for the effort; agreeing that, indeed, they really were both too thin. _

_On Sunday nights, when the streets were for the most part empty, he took her for walks around the city. He enjoyed this tremendously, though Meg never quite understood why. Still, she humored him, simply satisfied with being near him. _

_She never became Empress and he never turned handsome, but they were happy. The rest of the world no longer interested them, and neither of them found the need to strive to be a part of it anymore. Meg began spending less and less time at rehearsal, until she just stopped going altogether. Money was not an issue; Erik had plenty of it in reserve. _

_Their days were filled with only each other, and quite frankly they liked it that way. The rest was superfluous, unnecessary, complicated. _

_But then he had fallen ill. Meg stayed with him until the very end, determined to keep him with her as she had managed to keep her mother. _

_His health did not improve, however. As he lay dying, he left Meg with a letter. It was addressed to a Persian man who had promised to place Erik's obituary in Le Epoche. _

_Meg asked him, clasping his hand in an effort to keep him among the living, why he had never introduced them. _

_"I worried that he'd misunderstand, that he'd think I'd forced you or deceived you like I did Christine." _

_"But it isn't true, Erik! You can't really believe that!" Meg cried, all passion, hands tightening around his. _

_"I worried that he'd convince me otherwise." Erik replied simply, raising a trembling hand out of her grip to stroke her cheek. "My beautiful Meg." _

_No one had ever called Meg Giry beautiful. Her mother had called her precious, and once she recalled being told she was charmingly petite. But she had never, ever been called beautiful. Strange, how she had never really noticed until that moment. _

_"My beautiful, brilliant Erik." She moved to whisper against his ear. "I love you." _

_Meg delivered the letter faithfully. Not too long after, Le Epoche published the statement "Erik is dead." _

_And soon, as foretold, Erik died. _

_She thought she was going to die. She couldn't comprehend the concept of life without Erik. But she didn't die. Miraculously she lived. She did not even cry much. Perhaps her soul had gone with Erik after all; it was only her hollow carcass that remained. _

_The obituary bothered Meg. Erik didn't need it; not since they had severed their ties with the world above, save Madame Giry who still knew nothing about their relationship. No, the obituary was meant for someone in specific to see. Christine Daae. _

_Yes, Erik had mentioned how Christine had sworn to return once he had passed. She was supposed to return his ring to him and give him a proper burial. _

_Meg waited. Christine never came. Somehow, Meg had known she wouldn't come. _

_Instead, Meg returned to the surface world and purchased a plain gold band; just as Erik had described it. She took the ring back to Erik, placing it on his now literally death cold hands. _

_She'd keep Christine's promise for her. Erik's wishes would be granted, even in death. She'd see to it. _

_With some effort, she managed to drag him out to the soft soil in the catacombs. Gingerly, lovingly, she placed him in the grave she had prepared for him. _

_Once she had lowered him into the ground, she cast one final look at him. The mask perturbed her. It had come between them in this life; it would no do so in the next. _

_She bent down and snatched the hated black cloth from his form, screaming at the sight that she beheld. That face would haunt her for the rest of her life, she was certain. But it did not concern her much. For Meg knew, should the horror of his face come to disturb her dreams, Erik's kindness and warmth would spring forward to protect her. He would always protect her. She would always cherish him. _

_As she filled in the unmarked grave, she sobbed for the cruel irony of it all. In less than three weeks, she and Erik had known more happiness than most people would know in their entire lives. She was grateful for her time, albeit brief, with Erik. Still she thought she'd never know joy again. _

_It wasn't until roughly a month later that she realized Erik's legacy lived, within her, growing in size and strength with each passing day. _

Leroux's fingertips brushed the upturned dirt. The very place Erik's skeleton had been discovered, where Meg Giry had buried him what seemed so long ago.

He reached behind him, feeling around for the little mahogany box Meg had given him.

_"Keep it. It no longer plays."_ Meg had told him. _"It stopped working the day he died." _

Inspecting it, he had no idea how it had ever worked at all. The little box had no place to be wound, no power-source to be seen. Erik's genius, or maybe it had been magic after all.

Regardless, the little box no longer played. So Leroux had stuffed it with certain pages from his notes and any other form of evidence that involved what he had omitted from his novel.

_"I want his story to be told." _Meg had admitted. _"I want the world to know him for what he really was; a man. A beautiful man with a soul rich enough to encompass the entire world! And in the end, he had to content himself with a cellar." _

But then she digressed, adopting a pleading tone. _"But as for our story, _that_ I'd rather remain lost. Our intimacy, our private connection, that is all exclusive to us, as it is with any couple! I do not want that widely known. Not without his consent, which he is not here to give. We should be as ordinary people." _

_"But what of all you have told me? And the skeleton… with the ring?" _

_"Change it." She replied nonchalant. "Let the reader believe it was Christine, as it should have been. Let them believe that he died of a broken heart. All the easier to stir compassion. All the easier for them to love him." Her voice broke, thick with emotion. "He should be loved." _

_"He will be." Leroux didn't say it, but his mouth formed the words silently. He had seen it in his mind's eye. There would be his book. And perhaps one day it would be turned into an Opera, or some more modern form of art and entertainment. The world would know Erik, and they would love him. _

_Meg sacrificed her role in the story for him. She did not want to be painted as a heroine anyway. She was just a woman who loved a man, like any other. _

He buried the pretty little box there, never to be found. And if it was, the scraps of evidence and disjointed parts of his notes would be nonsensical alone.

His labors finished, Leroux stood and left the cellars of the Opera House, left the Opera House itself. He had no intention to return, unless of course to actually see an Opera. But his hand in Erik's story was done. Erik was dead. And the rest had moved on.

Outside the rain had ceased. As Leroux exited the building he had frequented obsessively during his investigation, he swore he glimpsed the clouds parting before him. Light poured forth onto the Parisian streets, illuminating the path for anyone who took its offered guidance.

Leroux lifted his face to the sunlight, uncovered, eyes closed. He took a few steps forward blindly into the warming light, before breathing deeply, and opening his eyes to the horizon.

Somewhere, someday, some man, woman, or child would look upon the story of the Phantom of the Opera and feel drawn to it. They wouldn't know why the story affected them so, only that it did.

They'd be naïve to the blood that coursed in their veins, telling of a dancer and a madman, living on together within them… for all time.

* * *

Please review. Criticisms are _greatly _appreciated. I work hard on my writing, please help me improve or just tell me if you liked it.


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